


Hand Me Your Armour

by Vulpesmellifera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Background Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Caring Greg Lestrade, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, POV Greg Lestrade, Pining Greg Lestrade, Post-Canon, Service Top Greg Lestrade, Whump, anthea ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: Greg Lestrade has been carrying a torch for Mycroft Holmes for years. Between cases and the petty dramas of life, he can mostly keep it at bay, flickering on a low burn in the back of his mind.However, after he's pulled into a search and rescue operation for the man, he finds himself thrust into an unexpected role. He's trying to be respectful - and careful - but Mycroft Holmes is a force to be reckoned with, and the torch is burning brighter than ever.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 255
Kudos: 725
Collections: Mark Gatiss birthday collection 2019





	1. Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a/gifts).



> This piece was written for the Mark Gatiss Birthday Charity Auction of 2019. Thank you to n_a for having the patience to wait this long!
> 
> Thank you also so much to notjustmom and hippocrates460 for the beta. For me, creating these stories is a process that involves a team, and I could not be more grateful for the members on my team. 
> 
> The playlist that helped to facilitate the writing of this fic can be found on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4mpfeh8Stt9rQJUnS5tzcV).
> 
> Chapter 2 will be posted soon.

The comms crackles to life: “Arctic Fox secured.”

“They’ve got him,” Anthea says in a rush of breath. She bends over the comms unit with her arms folded. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun on the nape of her neck and the dark half-moons below her eyes make her look older than her thirty-something years. 

Greg looks over at Sherlock and John. John has crossed his arms and watches Sherlock. The untidy silver-blond fringe over his eyes speaks to their long toil here, awaiting word from the team inside the building. Sherlock, in his long coat and blue scarf, is as still as a snake about to strike, intense gaze locked on Anthea. She speaks into the mic. “Status?”

“Conscious. In need of medical attention. No serious injuries. Spittin’ mad. Asking for you. Refuses help, of course.”

Her lips twitch. “Area secured?”

“Area secure. All hostiles have been neutralised.”

“Copy. On our way.” She grabs her gun from its holster and checks that it’s loaded before sliding it back in. “Let’s go.” They follow her out the doors of the surveillance van and into the cold night air. 

Most of the scenery passes Greg in a blur on the short walk from the street to the lot behind the chain link fence. There’s the wide expanse of asphalt beneath them and dark sky above them laced with the smell of car exhaust. Ahead of them, commercial buildings loom. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that these buildings are still under construction. It’s the weekend and no one’s been at work.

Mycroft has been missing for twenty-four hours. Sherlock has been a destructive typhoon, flinging through memos and communications, soaking up CCTV footage and spitting out deductions faster than Greg can understand - and he’s been doing Holmes-speak for years. John has been his mostly quiet shadow, occasionally steadying the man with a hand on the shoulder, and when Sherlock’s frustrations became the catalyst for his delivery of scathing deductions about MI5 team members, John halted Sherlock’s momentum with a snapped word and an angry stare. 

Greg also caught them in the men’s room, Sherlock’s forehead pressed to John’s, John’s hands cradling his face. The tenderness of the scene triggered a deeper yearning in Greg - to be someone’s anchor, and for that someone to anchor him, when things have gone terribly, horribly wrong.

Despite the thin trail left behind by the kidnappers, Sherlock picked up on it with the absorptive diligence of a bloodhound. 

The trail leads here. Greg’s stomach slithers and knots with thoughts of what could have happened to Mycroft in the time it’s taken to find him, but with the practice he’s had as an inspector, he shoves it down and sharpens his focus.

Anthea strides like a panther through the doors and down the halls. Armed and armoured figures direct their group further into the building. There’s plastic sheeting hanging along some of the hallways, and they pass a spray of blood along one of the walls, but Anthea keeps a quick and steady pace. Finally, they go through a door and into a small, windowless room. Likely intended to be a storage closet for a future business, if Greg had to guess.

A single bulb illuminates the space. Mycroft sits on the concrete floor with his head bent over his knees and his back against the wall. A shock blanket is wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Anthea approaches slowly. 

He looks up. His eyes are bloodshot, and hair is mussed with a greasy looking curl hanging over his forehead. With lips parted, he stares at Anthea, who says: “Mycroft. I’m so glad we’ve found you.” 

Greg can tell from the softness of her voice that it’s genuine. She really cares.

Sherlock pipes up, his deep voice like a shot in the room. “Yes. It’s time to come home, brother.” It’s a strange thing to say, and Greg can’t tell if Sherlock is being petty or not.

Mycroft nods to Anthea, who helps him to stand. 

“Let the doctor check you out.”

“I’m fine,” Mycroft snaps. It’s bizarre to see him without the jacket and waistcoat. “I just need rest. I haven’t slept in forty-two hours.”

“They’ve hurt you.” The previously snide tone of Sherlock’s voice is missing. 

Anthea speaks. “Let Doctor Watson tend -“

“I will not!”

She moves closer to him while unleashing a furious whisper. Mycroft’s returning whispers are near growls. Greg can see it now - the way his forehead wrinkles, the way his shoulders pull in on himself. He’s hurting. 

“I’m simply sore - “ Mycroft’s voice raises.  
“ _Sir_ ,” Anthea says. She turns to the MI5 agent standing in the doorway. “Bring in a chair, please.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Mycroft scoffs. 

He’s not. He’s the most capable man that Greg has ever known. Christ, the man manages an entire country, plus the most infuriating man to have ever lived inside that country. And Greg knows he used to be an SIS agent, but he has no idea what the man’s title is now. Probably doesn’t have the clearance to know it. 

“You act like the man’s bloody Bond,” John had said to him over a pint.

“Nah. I think he’s M,” Greg had answered.

The agent is back with a chair in a moment. The legs clash and scrape against the concrete of the floor as he sets it down. 

“Sit,” Anthea says.

Mycroft glares, those blue-grey eyes like chips of ice.

“For me. Please.” Her voice is low, almost intimate. 

His mouth trembles. He sits. 

She turns to John and motions for him to get on with it. John looks at Sherlock who nods, and with one last glance at Greg, he shuffles forward. 

Mycroft holds the blanket tight. He ignores John’s approach. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snarls, and is met with a flat-lipped, scornful stare. 

Greg bites his lip and folds his arms. It’s more of a protective hug than a sign of boredom, though Greg wonders again why he’s here. It’s a bit of a reminder of Sherrinford, when he reached out to Mycroft, tried to do as Sherlock had asked him. And Mycroft had responded with incredulity at the idea of needing ‘time with a friend.’

Greg prefers not to think of the specifics of Mycroft’s message. 

He watches as Mycroft relaxes his death grip on the blanket. John peels it from him. Mycroft’s shoulders sag, though his eyes roll up to the ceiling, exposing the white column of his neck. 

In that instant Greg recalls the scent of cologne and skin, skin that belongs to Mycroft, skin that got Greg hard. His body had tingled with the idea of sex, nosing at that pale neck as Mycroft gripped him close. His hands had gone for undoing Mycroft’s tie as their tongues slid together and their mouths devoured each other. His divorce had just gone through, and the idea of being with Mycroft Holmes thrilled him to no end. 

That was two years ago, before the Sherrinford mess. The hurt is old and dull like a lost penny. Greg has gotten a leg over plenty of times since then - well, maybe not plenty, but enough - but he can’t shake the feeling that Mycroft is the proverbial one who got away. 

_Stop thinking about it_. Though neither Holmes is paying him any attention. John’s asking questions in a grating, professional tone, and Mycroft is answering as if he’s a bored and petulant child. 

“Can you unbutton your shirt, please.” It’s more command than question.

“It’s not necessary.”

Anthea gives Mycroft a look. The sort of look that promises trouble with a capital T. He frowns, but begins unbuttoning his shirt. It almost brings a smile to Greg’s face, until the frown changes into a look of defiance as Mycroft shifts his gaze back to John. 

In the split second before Mycroft reveals more skin, Greg thinks of his regret of never getting to peel Mycroft out of his suit. Mycroft had been too quick to fall to his knees and unzip Greg’s trousers. It was dizzying to see him there, nose to crotch. They barely took off any clothes, just Greg’s trousers and pants, and half his shirt. Mycroft only undid his zip and by that time Greg had been turned around and bent over a desk, begging for a buggering. Though, not quite in those words. 

A sharp intake of breath breaks the silence in the room. Anthea stands with her back to Mycroft and John, her head bent over her phone. Greg can’t see what John’s looking at, and as he shifts to look, Anthea shakes her head. He stays. She moves next to him and directs him to turn around as she’s done, so he faces the door. His face burns with embarrassment. He’s a cop and a sort of friend of the family - but he should have respected Mycroft’s privacy. 

Even though he and Mycroft used to be friends.

Even though they’ve fucked. 

“Breathe in,” John says.

The breath Mycroft takes is smooth at first, but hitches before the inhalation finishes, and then rushes out in one gust. 

“Again.” 

The breath comes again, only slightly staggered. 

“I’d say a couple bruised ribs. Anywhere else hurt, Mycroft?”

Greg notices that Sherlock never turned around, and is watching the whole thing. He can’t blame him. Hell, Greg’d do the same if it were his brother. Anthea wouldn’t be directing him away then.

As soon as John says it’s alright and moves away, he can hear Mycroft get to his feet. “If we’re quite finished - ”

“Of course, Mr Holmes,” Anthea says as she turns to face him. Greg follows her to see that Mycroft is white-faced and perspiring, his shirt buttoned back up. “Your flat’s been compromised. We’re taking you to a safehouse.”

“And what safehouse is that supposed to be? Quite clearly there’s a mole.” There’s a slight shake to Mycroft’s voice, but Greg is relieved to hear Mycroft has come to the same conclusion they had: Eurus is not behind this. 

“Yes. So Duncan and I will be taking you to the Eagle’s Nest.”

Mycroft turns grey at that, his mouth curving down. “I-is the C-cupbearer aware of this turn of events?” 

“He will be.”

Sherlock snorts and tosses a glance at Greg. 

“What?”

“Cupbearer,” Sherlock says in a tone that is delighted and derisive all at once.

Anthea ignores him and turns to Greg. “You’ll accompany Mr Holmes and me to the car.”

John is watching all this with wide eyes. Mycroft doesn’t look at anyone.

“Yeah, o’ course.” His heart clutches at the idea of riding in the car with this man who is so clearly affected by his abduction and assault. _But god, I hate caring so much._ He’s taken every opportunity he can to prove he’s worth more than a quick fuck, but it hasn’t gotten him anywhere. 

He and Mycroft used to stand outside the hospital, smoking cigarettes in celebration of getting the all-clear from Sherlock’s doctors. They used to laugh over dinner and drinks about football and royal gossip and the stupid things they did when they were young. Greg told him about his fear that his wife was cheating on him, and Mycroft said nothing - _though he must have known_ \- and only lent a sympathetic ear.

Mycroft won’t look at anyone as he half stumbles out the door. Neither Anthea nor Sherlock offer an arm, and John never would, so Greg goes to his side and offers his.

“I need no one’s help,” Mycroft says through gritted teeth. 

“Well I’d like to get out of here without you falling on your face, so why don’t you take my arm so you don’t embarrass yourself any more,” Greg hisses back.

Mycroft’s visage screws into a look of rage. Then he swallows and glares at the floor. Greg grabs his arm and helps to steady his walk out the door and down the hallway. Agents watch them pass, but Greg ignores them, keeping his eye on the exit. 

There’s a black sedan waiting for them. Duncan, tall, built like a wrestler, with dark hair in a ponytail and a bushy mustache sitting on a split upper lip, opens the door. Mycroft jerks his arm away from Greg, and lowers himself slowly into the car. 

Greg nods to Duncan, who nods back. Beside him, Anthea stops Sherlock and John before they can get in. “I won’t have you antagonize him.” 

Sherlock shoves his hands into his pockets. John crosses his arms and looks at the ground. She waits a moment. The air is tense, and Greg’s just thinking about chinning Sherlock when he bobs his head. “The saying is old habits die hard. This is a habit I am willing to let lie and never resurrect.” Then he smirks. “Unless he starts it first.” This response seems to satisfy Anthea as she steps out of the way and lets them get in. She gestures for Greg to go ahead of her.

He slides in next to John who’s in the middle seat, with Sherlock on the other side. Across from Sherlock sits Mycroft, who stares down at his hands in his lap. It’s not just the lack of jacket and waistcoat that is incongruous, but also his missing umbrella. 

There’s a garment bag hung from a hook over a window, likely carrying a replacement suit. Mycroft doesn’t reach for it. A duffel bag sits at his feet.

Anthea opens a laptop and begins typing. “Duncan has already double-checked Eagle's Nest to ensure its continued security. We’ll drop Mr Holmes the Younger and Doctor Watson off at Baker Street, and then we’ll take the Detective Inspector to his building. And then, to the safehouse.”

“Where’s this safehouse you have that a mole won’t know about?” John asks. 

Anthea glances at him and back down at her laptop. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John, and then looks down at his phone. John has a little indignant fire left in him, but Greg can see how knackered he is, and sure enough, John faces straight ahead and ignores everybody. 

Mycroft seems resigned to Anthea’s plans, though he’s frowning.

By the time they pull up to Baker Street, Greg is listing to one side and can’t stop yawning. When the door opens, Sherlock looks at his brother. “I’m glad you’re safe.” With a sharp nod, he slides out of the car. John inclines his head to each of them, and follows. When the door slams shut, Mycroft flinches.

Anthea lifts her face to look at Greg. As always, her expression is neutral - even earlier, when they were awaiting news on Mycroft, he could detect only a hint of anxiety in her features. Now, she’s back to business. “Detective Inspector, a few years ago we decided, with the state of affairs being what they were, to create a safehouse for Sherlock. A residence where there were few ways in or out, where Sherlock could be monitored, and where he couldn’t easily reach the outside world.”

“O-kay.” 

“At the time, we outfitted the place with additional private security cameras. Only two people have access: I and Mr Holmes.” She turns the laptop around so he can see the screen.

It’s a white door, in a hallway with beige wallpaper and a familiar patterned carpet.

It’s his hallway.


	2. Rest

There's a discordant tone in his ear, a tilting dissonance of place and time as he stares at the feed of his front door. He shakes himself from the grasping sensation. “Why do you have a camera on my door?” 

Anthea smirks at him.

 _Jesus._ “I’m Cupbearer?” 

“Yes.”

“I - wouldn’t someone check my flat if they’re looking for Sherlock?”

“This plan was in place for Sherlock’s benefit. We were concerned for his continuing sobriety after he was captured on a mission for British security services. Should he have turned to drug usage, there is no treatment facility that can hold him. Mr Holmes and I believed that under your influence, he might clean himself up again.” 

“As a prisoner? But, wait I’ve only lived there -“

“This was when Sherlock returned,” Mycroft says in a quiet, unhurried voice. “He was captured in Serbia. Tortured. I was unsure of his mental state, particularly when he would come back to John Watson proposing to Mary Morstan. I was - concerned for him.”

Greg’s heart squeezes at that. “Tortured? Jesus.”

Anthea speaks up, “To gain entry to your flat, one has to either scale the building or pass the concierge and the cameras. We’ve tapped into the building’s cameras. There’s no way for anyone to rescue Sherlock without a bit of trouble, if John Watson got it in his head that he needed to go looking for him, or if one of his Irregulars were to mount a rescue party...”

“They’d go through all that?”

Mycroft’s nod is slow and thoughtful. “I like to plan for every possible scenario, and we are speaking of Sherlock Holmes.” There is, even in his disturbed state, a note of pride in his voice. 

“Anyway,” Anthea says, “it works in our favor. Until we can ensure the success of our current mission, Mycroft will be safe in your home. We’re switching cars now.”

The vehicle parks. They move quickly from one car to another, Anthea carrying the garment and duffel bags. It’s a mid-size grey Honda with fancy rims, tinted windows, and a spoiler on the back. Greg stares at it in shock for a moment, but really, where else would you hide Mycroft Holmes? Anthea takes the wheel as Duncan takes off in the black sedan. Mycroft goes in the back. When Greg starts for the passenger door Anthea gestures for him to head to the back seat.

He gets in and buckles his seatbelt. Mycroft stares out the window on his side. They sit about a foot away from each other but it might as well be a chasm, complete with jagged edges and rushing waters down below. Using the window’s reflection to study the man, he sees Mycroft dip slightly with the movement of the vehicle. 

_Well, he did say he hasn’t slept in over forty hours._

Greg hasn’t prepared the guest room. He’s pretty sure his niece’s Pokemon bedspread is still on the bed from a recent sleepover. Mycroft will have to take his room and he’ll bunk with Pikachu. 

His phone vibrates with a text. He checks it.

 _He won’t say so, but he’ll need to be near a window. -SH_ _  
_ _He doesn’t like to feel closed in. -SH_  
  
He texts back.  
  
_Got it._  
  
The car rolls into the underground garage at Greg’s building.

“One minute please.” Anthea pulls out her mobile and types quickly. Greg glances at Mycroft to see him staring down at his lap, his breathing purposeful. In. Out. In. Out.

“I’ve jammed any video signals. Let’s go,” Anthea announces.

Greg gets out of the car, trying not think of _what the fuck_ Anthea has that can just randomly jam signals on the video feed in the garage. He sees Mycroft get out on his side, looking a bit uneasy. Mycroft catches him looking, and fixes him with a withering stare that hits Greg in the gut. Greg shakes his head and heads for the lift.

“It has to be now, Mr. Holmes. We have three minutes.”

Greg looks back at Mycroft. His face is grey, the withering stare gone. He stares at the metal doors of the lift mere yards away, scuffed and dented from years of use. 

Greg sets his shoulders, strolls back over to Mycroft, and takes his arm. Mycroft holds his head high as they walk to the lift. Anthea has already pressed the button.

Greg puts Mycroft between them. He gets on the lift first and pulls Mycroft with him.

_He doesn’t like to feel closed in._

“I’m only helping, Mycroft,” he murmurs.

When Mycroft doesn’t respond, Greg's sense of worry balloons.

Anthea enters behind them and presses the button for the third floor. 

Mycroft’s eyes are closed and he’s humming. Light. Bouncy. It’s the only sound aside from the mechanical hum of the lift. The tune isn’t something Greg recognizes, but it seems to hold Mycroft steady as he stands, his back rigid and arms pressed to his sides, pinning Greg’s arm between his elbow and his rib cage. His hair is still tousled, and his mouth is a tight, thin line. It burns to think of the monsters who did this to this man, this giant who borders on omnipotent and is supposed to be unassailable. Untouchable. Did his work in security services prepare him for possible capture and interrogation? Torture? 

The humming gets a little louder. The white-knuckled grip Mycroft has on his own wrist is concerning. Greg gives his arm a squeeze and starts tapping on his arm in time, but slower. The humming slows down to the right tempo.

Anthea’s looking at them from the corner of her eye, and it washes him with the embarrassment of having his feelings caught out. But he keeps his focus on the rhythm of his fingers tapping.

The doors open to his floor and Anthea steps out first. Greg helps Mycroft move forward, feeling a little relieved when Mycroft opens his eyes. Tense, white-faced, he makes Greg unhand him, and he walks on his own, with Greg close beside him.

Anthea gets to his door and takes out a key.

“Of course,” Greg says as he crosses his arms. “Please, help yourself.” Anthea purses her mouth in a small smile and unlocks the door.

Inside, there’s his grey sofa and the scratched up coffee table. Opposite the sofa hangs his flatscreen TV. Below that a shelf of books and DVDs. An archway frames the entrance to his small kitchen. A dining table and chairs sit behind his couch, and on the walls hang a few prints from famous photographers. The dining table is covered with mail, a pile of clean laundry, a couple of dirty dishes, and a bottle of paracetamol. 

Exhaustion slides into him, bone-deep, and he rubs his face. “You can have my room. Just let me change the sheets, yeah?”

“Excellent. We’ll need ten minutes,” Anthea replies. Mycroft stands and stares at nothing.

As Greg prepares the room - he empties the trash of all the used tissues and picks up the dirty clothes - he thinks about that night. Well, that other night. There’s The Night They Fucked. But then, there’s that other night. The night Greg finally threw his wife out of his flat. 

She’d moved some of her stuff back in only weeks before, following a separation of six months. She still had her own place, where ostensibly she was fucking the PE teacher she forgot to mention during their reconciliation. He’d waited until after Christmas to break if off for a final time with her, but it ended in a fight so loud the neighbors had called the cops. He will never forget how the rest of that night went.

He’d gone to Mycroft’s. And Mycroft, he’d taken Greg in. Given him some tea. Talked him down from going back there now that the police were gone when Greg wanted to give her a piece of his mind. Mycroft had put on some French film with English subtitles, and the two of them had stayed up, eventually switching from tea to scotch and getting rousing drunk and happy. 

The next morning he was left with only snatches of memories. Mycroft inviting him to lie down in his guestroom. Mycroft helping him out of his trousers and shirt and into the bed. Mycroft laying the blankets over him, and wishing him a ‘most pleasant rest.’ He had been embarrassed and chuffed all at once, and when he rose and went down to the breakfast room, Mycroft had prepared omelets and toast and fresh fruit on a platter. He can still remember the sticky and sweet taste of clementine on his tongue as he watched Mycroft peel his own and carefully divide the segments.

Greg looks down at the bed, adorned with fresh sheets and an extra blanket. _Wonder if Anthea’s got pyjamas for him in that bag. And toiletries?_

He doesn’t have any fresh fruit in, but he does have toast and eggs.

He glances at the window. The shade is pulled down, but Mycroft can lift it if he needs to see outside. 

This room has a bigger window, so it’ll be better for Mycroft anyway.

_Jesus Christ. How is this my life?_

When he walks out into the hallway, he sees Mycroft standing in the lounge with his arms folded. Anthea stands next to him. The bag is on the sofa. 

“You’re exhausted,” Greg says as he watches Mycroft sway. “My room’s ready. Bath's across the way.”

“Dr Watson prescribed these painkillers for your ribs,” Anthea says as she passes a small bag to Mycroft.

_Where did she get those? And when?_

Greg decides not to ask. It’s better not to know. 

Mycroft takes the bag and walks past Greg and into the hallway.

“Mycroft,” Anthea says. It’s still strange to hear her use his first name. “Use them.”

Mycroft gives one sharp nod of his chin, and continues into the bathroom.

Anthea turns to Greg. “He doesn’t like to take anything that will slow his mind, but honestly it would be better for him at this point. He’s no doubt flagellating himself for not seeing this coming, and for getting captured again. He needs sleep, and he needs to relax.”

 _Wait._ “Again?”

Anthea grimaces, but in the next second her face smooths over as she levels a hard stare at Greg. “I don’t think I said again. Please encourage him to take the painkillers. There’s also a sleep aid.”

“All right. I’ll do my best. Not sure he’ll listen to me.” How much does she know about their history? Greg turns away before his face blushes when his mind provides a glimpse of what he must have looked like over Mycroft’s desk _\- the mahogany grain of the wood pressed against his cheek while Mycroft-_ “Uh. Is it safe for me to go to sleep? I’m pretty knackered. Or am I supposed to watch over him?”

“Sleep, Detective Inspector. I’m leaving now as I will need to be available to the investigation team while Mr Holmes is indisposed. I’ll receive an alarm anytime a door or a window opens here. Duncan will be on hand.” She hands him a remote. “Press this button if you need him. I will also be notified.”

“And uh...the cameras?”

“Are only exterior.”

“Okay,” he exhales.

“I’ll be by tomorrow.” She sighs, and her shoulders sag. Her usually impenetrable demeanour is gone. She tips her chin up and smiles at Greg. “Watch over him.”

“I will.” Greg can tell from Anthea’s actions today that she’s not just a loyal employee - she really cares about the smug, condescending toff. “And get some sleep, will ya?”

When the door shuts behind her, he heads for the kitchen and gets himself a drink of water. He can hear Mycroft moving about. He wonders if he needs any help, but he can hear the toilet flush and the sink run. Then the shower.

Mycroft is taking a shower.

Mycroft is nude in his bathroom.

Greg scratches the edge of one eye and rubs his chin. He can feel more than a day’s stubble there. He assumes Anthea will have him off from work for British intelligence reasons. 

He finishes his water.

Mycroft is in the shower and he refuses to think about it. God, how he’d love to see more of that man’s skin -

The shower shuts off. There’s movement. More running of the sink. The door opens. 

The white noise shuffle of Mycroft’s walk into the hallway.

“Lestrade?” Greg’s heart cracks a little at the note of uncertainty in Mycroft’s voice. 

“I’m here. In the kitchen.” He moves out into the lounge where he can see the silhouette of Mycroft in the hallway, shoulders bent. “I’ll be sleeping just down the hall in the guest room. I’ll keep my door open, so call if you need anything. Anything at all.” The remote is in his hand. “Anthea gave me some kind of panic button.”

“I have one also,” comes the quiet reply. 

“Good.” Greg flexes the fingers of his open hand. _Is there something else I should do or say -_

“Goodnight,” Mycroft says.

“Get some sleep. Anthea says to take those pills.” 

Mycroft doesn’t answer, only quietly steps into his room. 

Greg goes about his nightly routine of pyjamas and such. He adds a thorough wipe down with a washcloth at the sink in lieu of a full shower. Standing doesn’t seem like something he’ll be able to do much longer. 

Mycroft’s door is wide open. 

_He doesn’t like to feel enclosed._

He does his best not to pause by Mycroft’s door, but he hesitates before his own, straining to hear anything from where Mycroft lies. Nothing. Not a sound.

He leaves his own door open.

He puts the panic button on the nightstand and places his mobile on the charger. The springs creak and moan as he wriggles into the bed and pulls the Pokémon print comforter over him. After he turns off the lamp, there’s only a soft glow through the curtains. He closes his eyes and lets exhaustion take him.

* * *

Mycroft doesn’t rise the next day until 10 am. He’s dressed in a grey suit and navy tie striped with silver, and a matching pocket square. 

Greg has eggs and toast ready by then, but he found himself wishing he'd bought scones. It was a running joke between them - or it had been, once. Stemming from the time he brought over scones baked by a coworker. Without a word of warning, he passed Mycroft a scone, and watched him bite into it. The look of horror on Mycroft’s face was worth everything. 

“ _Salt_?” He’d said. “Did they use salt instead of sugar?”

Greg had snorted with laughter and doubled over. 

“You are a rascal, sir. I cannot fathom what I have done to earn such an attack on my person,” Mycroft threw the scone back into the bag, but a smile tugged on his lips, and his eyes, slate-blue and sharp, twinkled.

“Oh my god, the look on your face!” Greg hooted, and then tossed the bag of scones into the bin of Mycroft’s office. “I’m pretty sure you could fight off England’s foes with Hopkins’ baking!”

“This was a demonstration of a new weapon, then?”

“Whaddya say? Wanna buy?” Greg had winked.

“I want to remove you from my office for your impertinence,” Mycroft said with his nose in the air, and then he waved his hand at the rubbish bin. “And I’d like that abomination removed at once. Good heavens, man!”

Greg, still snickering, offered to make it up to him. “Okay, how about to make up for it, we do coffee and pastries, and I pay?”

Mycroft had smiled widely at that. “You have yourself a deal. But I shall be watching your every movement, to be sure your hands do not go anywhere near a baked good I intend to eat.”

If he’d had a scone, he could think of something funny to say to Mycroft, something that brought back that happy time. The following trip to the cafe had been a glorious afternoon full of laughter.

Mycroft is pale, though impeccably dressed. Greg doesn’t comment on it. He hands Mycroft a plate of eggs and toast.

“I expect Anthea to come by soon,” Mycroft says. “I’m - I’ll take this into my room. I must prepare for her arrival.”

Hours go by. Greg lies on the sofa, snoozing a bit to make up for the late night. At one point he turns on the 1981 film version of _Clash of the Titans_ , because it doesn't hurt to look at Harry Hamlin.

When Anthea arrives, he’s still half-asleep, his back aches, and his heart is heaving beneath the weight of his thoughts.

“How is he?” she asks.

“Hell if I know. Doesn’t come out of his room.” He rubs at the stubble on his chin.

She frowns and looks down the hallway. “Your room,” she says.

“Yeah. Where he’s staying.” _Does it matter?_

“Right.” She tilts her head at him. “You’re good for him. Don’t let him push you away. And I never said that to you.” 

Mycroft comes into the lounge, head held high and imperious eyebrows raised in question.

“I have news,” she says. 

“About time,” Mycroft growls.

“Let’s step into Greg’s room.” She grabs Mycroft by the arm and walks them to the hallway. The door shuts behind them.

Apparently he is no longer part of this investigation. The feeling chafes at him like sandpaper on skin, but he swallows his pride and starts preparations for dinner. 

Voices rise when Mycroft finally comes out of the room, holding his plate from breakfast. “Thank you for breakfast.” His tone isn’t friendly, though. His face is furrowed, whether in pain or anger or worry; Greg isn’t sure.

“I’ve got lasagne in the oven for dinner,” Greg says. 

Anthea comes out behind Mycroft. “Excellent. Mycroft will be joining you. I’m needed elsewhere.”

Mycroft shoots her a heated glare. Anthea smirks at him and walks out the door.

“‘K. Bye then, Anthea,” Greg says as he grabs his oven mitts. 

Mycroft sits at the dining table, which Greg cleared earlier. He thought about making it nice with candles and linens, but it seemed too...suggestive. Especially concerning their history, and Mycroft seems as if he needs a little distance, despite whatever Anthea said.

Still, there's no harm in extending a little olive branch, is there? “It’s vegetable lasagne. My mother’s recipe. Really tasty, and filling.” 

“Mm,” Mycroft says.

“So, any news on who the mole is?”

Mycroft is straightening the fork and knife at his setting on the table. “I trust Anthea to do her due diligence. No need to be concerned, Detective Inspector. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

 _Detective Inspector_. Greg chews his lip, and says, “Uh, I don’t mind your staying here, Mycroft. To keep you safe. It’s what friends do.”

Mycroft’s eyes snap to him so fast it feels as if he’s reached out an arm and snatched Greg bodily. Captured in that gaze must be how a mouse feels when flayed by the talons of a bird of prey. Greg keeps very, very still.

“Since when are we friends?”

“We were, once.” Greg clutches the oven mitts in his gasp, a whirl of irritation and exasperation blowing up in a frenzy. “A one night stand didn’t have to mean an end, you know.”

Mycroft balks. 

“I mean, here we are, some time later, and you’re in my home, sleeping in my bed, and I’m feeding you.” His voice is a low, rough husk. “What else do I have to do to show that I care?”

The pallour of Mycroft’s skin pales to ghost white, and his lips are a tight ribbon of pink below his nose. His voice quavers as he replies, “Then, please, take your bed back.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Mycroft!”

He stands, his hands clasped together, those long graceful fingers rigid in their grasp. “No, Greg. This was pushed upon you with no advance warning. Certainly, our history makes you very uncomfortable. I won’t impose on you for much longer.”

“Mycroft.”

“I’ll move my things.”

“Mycroft, you’re injured, have my bed. It’ll be better for you.”

“No. I won’t.” Mycroft’s shoulders slump and one hand goes to his face. “Please. Greg. Please. Take your bed back. It would comfort me to know that you are getting a well-deserved rest.”

There’s an acrid odor creeping into the air. Greg turns to take his lasagne out of the oven, the cheese burnt a bit at the edges. “Oh crap. Sorry. Dinner’s a bit crisp.” He sets the lasagne on the counter and shuts the oven off, heaving a tremendous sigh over how the day has gone.

Mycroft clears his throat behind him. “I’m sure it will taste fine.”

The rest of dinner is quiet. When Greg cleans up and goes out to the lounge, Mycroft has disappeared. He finds his bedroom door wide open and his bed made, while the guestroom door is shut.

He knocks. “Mycroft? I meant it. Please take my room.”

“I will not. Goodnight, Greg.” He sounds angry.

Greg scours his face with his hands. “Okay. Goodnight.”

_Christ, I hope Anthea doesn’t find out and eviscerate me._

But there's anything worth getting eviscerated over, it might be the comfort of his own bed after a day spent fretting. He nestles deep into the comforter, and tries to pretend he isn’t full of regrets and old hurts. That this day, this opportunity to get closer to Mycroft, hasn't gone to shit.

He later wakes - his body hums with the knowledge that someone moves beside him in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thoughtful and amazing MyCopofTea commissioned the supreme Camillo1978 to create this image of Mycroft lying beneath that Pikachu comforter. I know you need see it: [Mycroft lying awake](https://twitter.com/Mycopoftea/status/1225352961863405568?s=20). They surprised me with it during a week I very badly needed it, and I am forever touched by their generous contribution to this story. All the hearts and all the hugs.


	3. Rekindle

A hand slides inside his pyjama top, cold against his hot skin.

“Jesus, Mycroft!” He startles from his drowsed state. “What are you-“

“Please,” comes the desperate reply. “Please, I just want to feel you-“ and Greg’s mouth is engulfed by Mycroft’s. The man clings to him, presses the whole line of his body to him as if they were opposite strips of Velcro, and Greg can’t help but clutch him close, kiss him, wants to believe this man wants him-

He breaks away. “Mycroft, I won’t take advantage-“

“I’m asking you to help me feel something. Help me feel something else that’s not their hands on me.” Mycroft’s voice is hot against his ear.

“Jesus Mycroft, did they-“

“No,” he growls. “Nothing like that. It’s the idea of those cretins touching me. The bruises. The pain. And worse, leaving me in that room. No one could hear me and I couldn’t hear anyone, couldn’t see anyone-“ Mycroft’s voice quavers with panic so Greg kisses him. Mycroft melts against him and the two fist each other’s pyjamas. It isn’t long before Mycroft is trying to remove Greg’s top and Greg helps him, his nipples puckering in the chill of the air. Greg goes to unbutton Mycroft’s shirt but Mycroft pushes his hands away. That’s when he realizes: Mycroft is wearing not only his pyjamas, but also his dressing gown. 

“You’re not okay, Mycroft. And you’ve got to be in pain.” He notices now, the shallow, ragged breathing, the careful way Mycroft’s holding himself, the way he’s gingerly propped on the pillow beside Greg. “You haven’t taken your pills, have you?”

Mycroft is quiet, but he trembles. “I don’t want them. Why won’t you help me?" His voice drops an octave. "I’ll suck you if you want.” 

“No, I don’t want that.”

“You liked it last time I fucked you.” The sultry cadence snakes into his ears, shedding bits of memory full of passion and a tussle across a desk -

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft! That’s enough.” He jerks away, fighting with the blankets to sit up. 

“I’m not good enough for you, is it? Too ugly for the beautiful Greg Lestrade? Too broken?” 

Anger wells up inside Greg, but he quashes it down. He can picture Mycroft as a frightened animal, spitting and gnashing teeth. “I- I want to help you. I do. But I don’t want to be used. Do you - do you even feel anything for me? Anything? Because I do; I have feelings for you.”

“Impossible,” hisses Mycroft. “No one wants me. I’m insufferable and unctuous and repulsive.”

Greg reels. It’s discombobulating; like they’re not even inhabiting the same bed where two men should be nuts for each other, fucking each other’s brains out in a cloud of lust, wrapped up in an unrestrained and wild ages-old physical act. “How can you say that? Did you not hear what I just said? I just told you that I have feelings for you!”

“You wouldn’t if you knew better.” Mycroft pulls away and stands. Greg shoots out of the bed to grab him, to snatch his attention, but Mycroft moves fast. The lamp flares to life and floods the room with yellow light.

“Mycroft-“ Greg starts but Mycroft has untied the dressing gown and let it drop in a pile at his ankles. He unbuttons the pyjama top, and slides it off his shoulders. 

Greg’s sharp intake of breath stabs into his lungs. 

Mycroft drops his trousers and pants. 

Greg blinks, the sight before him unexpected; horrific and surreal. 

Parallel lines of white, twisted scarring begin at his clavicles and travel down over his pecs and across his belly, curving over the form of the musculature. They’re mostly easy to miss from this distance, except in some places, here and there, a scar is wider and darker, and then you see it - the pattern of scars, like a topographical map depicting sea level to higher peaks. 

Over his shoulders are nasty, mottled sections of scarring like tree bark, and as Mycroft turns, ropes of scars twine about his scapula, cross over his spine and line his rib cage. These are deeper than the ones on his front. Darker, wider, like ribbons of muddy rivers bisecting pearl white banks. More crimped lines travel over the globes of his arse. Most of it is white. Deeper bits are pink or brown. His thighs look as if they’ve been burned. And when Greg stands and steps closer he can see that there are small pinwheels of scar tissue - burn marks, like someone pressed something somewhat larger than a cigarette into his skin, covered him with batches of scars. Disfigured and pocked, burned and pitted. His skin is discolored in a multitude of places and Greg can’t help but stare.

Mycroft Holmes. Buttoned up and heavily armoured, no matter the weather.

Hiding all this below layers of silk and cotton.

Mycroft’s expression is one of defiance. His eyes blaze and his mouth is a flat horizon, a forbidding cloud over a wide field. Greg knows he should shut his mouth, but he’s rooted to the spot as Mycroft turns once again, his arms up in presentation. A scarred Vitruvian man.

“So you see,” Mycroft says. “I don’t speak lightly when I say no one wants this. It’s practical.” His tone is flat, final. “I do not allow myself to wish for more than a - _quick fuck_ \- where I do not undress. And now you know.”

Greg steps closer to him and gets right in his face. Mycroft stands as still as stone, his glare cold and hard. 

_I’ve got to do this right. He’ll only give me one chance._

“Everyone has scars. Some of us more than most.” Mycroft snorts and his eyes rotate in a show of disdain. Greg presses on. “And for many, we carry scars that no one sees. It doesn’t mean no one can care for us.” He places his palm over Mycroft’s chest. For all of Mycroft’s posturing, his heart is a rapid staccato of beats, a frantic melody of fear. “Can I touch them?”

“My body is not a horror show you can just pay a ticket to,” Mycroft snarls, though his body ripples with a shiver. 

“You’re not a horror show.” _God, Mycroft. God. All this time. You’ve been hiding. You’ve been hiding._

_Don’t hide from me._

He says it aloud. “Don’t hide from me.” 

Mycroft pulls back from him, but Greg follows. “Don’t hide from me. Lie down on the bed, and let me remove the memory of their hands from you.” Mycroft freezes, Greg’s hand on his chest. There’s a moment, eyes locked on each other, an exchange, a promise, held tight in the air between them. Greg sees it when Mycroft’s defiance slips, when the wall crumbles; he sees it in the softening around the eyes and mouth. His head falls forward to lean on Greg’s shoulder, like a puppet cut from its strings. 

Relief washes over Greg; he almost staggers from its buoyancy. “Lie down,” he says, hoping his voice stays steady. “I’ll turn the lamp off.”

Mycroft moves to the bed and before Greg extinguishes the light, he can see that the man’s hands shake.

The room plunges into darkness but for the moonlight through the curtains. Greg steps to the bed, and gets in, bumping into Mycroft as he does. His fingers slide across rough, bumpy skin, grooves and furrows. Mycroft is stiff, rigid. Greg hums to him, and finding that the man is not quite laid back but instead propped up on his elbows, he guides the man down onto the pillows. 

His heart thuds against his breastbone and his nerves jangle in a ferocious rhythm, but he can’t sink into uncertainty now. He lifts one leg over and frames Mycroft’s hips, feeling his body below him, warm and soft and hard all at once. Bracing himself on his forearms, he can feel Mycroft tensing up. “You’re safe,” he says, hoping the quiver in his voice isn’t too obvious. He kisses him, warm lips to warm lips. He cups his face to hold him in place, to keep it gentle, to keep it slow. When Mycroft tries to push for more, tries to devour, Greg keeps his response slow and languid. 

He nuzzles his jawline and down his neck; slides one hand up to touch Mycroft’s collarbone. Mycroft’s breath hitches and he grabs Greg’s hand.

“You’ve already shown me,” Greg says. “I’ve seen. And I’m not running away. You can trust me.”

Mycroft’s grip loosens. 

Greg slides his fingers over the crest of his clavicles, ridges of skin line up like ripples across a surface. He follows his fingers with soft kisses, and Mycroft shudders below him. He travels south, down the sternum with his tongue and his feather-light touches. When Mycroft starts shaking, he remembers scar tissue can sometimes have strange sensations due to the diaspora of injured nerve endings. “Am I hurting you?”

“N-no,” Mycroft says.

Greg closes his mouth around one nipple and sucks. Mycroft’s breath escapes him in an “ _oh_.” He trails from one nipple to the other leaving a wake of tender kisses and soothing licks. His tongue touches the knitted skin, following lines and tasting textures, sending as much care and attention as he can through this act of adoration. His mouth finds the other nipple, and a small, choked cry falls from Mycroft’s lips. He releases it. “Let me hear you. Let me know what feels good for you.” He goes back with his teeth, just a small nip and Mycroft shudders. 

He traces his tongue and lips over the form of Mycroft’s pectoral, his tongue thrusting into the divots of the scar tissues along the way. Mycroft tilts his hips upward as whimpers sound in his throat. Greg gently nips and continues his way around Mycroft’s stomach. Mycroft tenses again. 

Greg whispers just loud enough for Mycroft to hear him, his lips against his skin. “Remember, I want to touch you. This isn’t pity. This isn’t just because of what happened to you.”

Greg sits up and presses his hard cock against Mycroft’s. Mycroft’s hips jerk with the contact. “This is what you do to me,” Greg growls with lust. 

Then he grabs Mycroft’s hand and places it over his galloping heart. “This is what you do to me,” in a softer, tender tone. 

When Mycroft softens a bit beneath him, Greg goes back to his worship - _oh yes this is worship at this point_ \- of his stomach. The scarring is smaller here, only thin lines among scattered hair. He slides his hands over Mycroft’s hips as he shifts his own body down. 

Mycroft doesn’t move, doesn’t tense up, only seems to be waiting. His breathing is shallow, but steady. Greg feels the heavy scarring on his thighs. He strokes them once with his hands, and Mycroft’s whole body jerks.

“Too much?” Greg asks.

“It - in some places, it feels strange. I won’t feel it, and then suddenly, the feeling is too intense.”

“Okay. That’s okay. I won’t touch them like that again. Was it okay when I had some of my weight on them?”

“Y-yes. Yes.”

“Good.” It’s a bit like gentling a wild animal. Exactly that - a scared and skittish creature that’s been the subject of harsh words and hard hands. He leans forward and places kisses on Mycroft’s hips. His mind can’t recall what state his hips were in, but he can feel the tight wrinkles of crumpled, damaged skin. 

More interesting though is the scent of Mycroft’s most private area. He can feel his pubic hair against his cheek and his chin as his lips search out the man’s cock, thick and hot. He explores it with his mouth, hopes his tongue won’t find scarring here as well. There’s nothing worrying, only the raised veins along the shaft, like sliding his tongue over twisting ribbons. Mycroft cries out, and Greg hears the soft thud of his head as it hits the pillow. His body rocks in small movements. Greg fits the glans into his mouth and swallows down as much as he can, letting the tip touch the soft palate at the back of his mouth. His heart pounds in his ears as it soars with the knowledge that he gets to do this, that this brilliant, scared man is trusting him, trusts him to take care of him, to please him, to touch him and to adore him. 

He pulls back up and bobs back down again, over and over as he sucks and uses his tongue to poke and swirl and flick along the underside. 

_You can be cared for. You can even be loved, if you let me in._

When he can sense that Mycroft is getting close, he stops. He slides back up Mycroft’s body. “Turn over,” he says.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. 

“But only if it feels okay for you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Victory tingles in his stomach when Mycroft turns over. He kisses the back of Mycroft’s head, holding himself over the man’s body. He inhales the smell of shampoo, something Anthea must have included in the duffel bag. He moves to the back of his neck, kissing, tasting, inhaling the notes of vanilla and lavender from the shampoo. The skin there is wonderfully pale and smooth. His front brushes against Mycroft’s back; his nipples pebble with the contact. He follows the vertebrae of the neck and upper back, licking over the knobs and finding the scars. The tissue is dips and valleys and peaks, and he kisses and tongues and slides his fingertips over everything. Across shoulders and shoulder blades, over ribs and spine and finally to the tailbone. Mycroft writhes under the attention. 

It’s now or never. Mycroft lies still beneath him, his breathing excited and aroused. Greg bites one arsecheek gently, and then the other. Mycroft makes a squeak when he does it, but Greg keeps moving. He laves one long lick in the crevice of his arse and Mycroft's whole body jerks.

“I want to make you feel good," Greg says, his voice rough like gravel. "Can I do this?”

Mycroft is moving, but Greg can’t tell in the dark if he’s shaking or nodding.

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Y-yes.”

Greg spreads his cheeks, massages the flesh with his hands. _Oh, love, when’s the last time someone touched you like this?_ He goes right for it and tastes Mycroft’s most intimate area, that soft pink wrinkle of furled skin. Mcroft’s natural flavor is salt and umami over a hint of soap. He licks around the edges, and Mycroft whines. His hips rock in gentle motions as Greg works his tongue into him, fucking inside as far as he can reach. Mycroft’s cries are glorious to Greg’s ears, that pulsating _ah ah ah_ of someone who is suffused in pleasure and touch and glorious sensation. He slides his hand beneath Mycroft’s balls, gives them a soft squeeze, and then slides his hand over his hard prick. As he strokes his cock, Mycroft stutters, “F-fuck me. Please. I want to feel you. P-please. _Please_.”

This isn’t the Mycroft who snaps out orders and condescendingly flicks his fingers at others. This isn’t the immovable iceberg with the cut-glass voice and the contemptuous stare. This is a privilege, getting to see this man undone, wrecked, begging for relief. Begging for release.

And Greg will give it to him. He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the bubbling of emotions in his chest - fear has no place here. Only love. 

“Greg?” Mycroft says in an uncertain voice.

_He called you Greg._

He hasn’t been called Greg since that night, when Mycroft zipped himself up and Greg left the office, looking forward to a date that never came. Instead, it was the call for Sherrinford.

But that memory has no place here.

He kisses the back of the man’s thighs. In a hoarse voice, he says, “I have condoms. I have lube, too.” He’d bought the condoms the day after Mycroft fucked him over the desk. When those expired, he’d purchased more, hoping that he’d have some reason to bring someone home someday, and use them. But the only sex acts he’s had since then have been hurried and in someone else’s flat, or in the bathroom of a club.

They’ve lain untouched, in the drawer next to his bed that’s held only his body in the night. 

Mycroft relaxes underneath him. Greg kisses up the line of his spine and crawls toward the drawer. He keeps one of his legs pressed against Mycroft’s side.

_Touch starved, aren’t you? When’s the last time someone had you like this?_

The scars are old. Twenty years?

They’ve known each other for almost ten. 

It’s like a dream. There’s something surreal about it as he opens the bottle of lube and drizzles it onto his fingertips. He rubs it over his fingers to warm it, and then he slides them over Mycroft’s arse, rubbing circles around the entrance to his body. He slides his other hand between Mycroft’s thighs, and fondles his balls. He keeps it up, adding more lube, sliding his fingers inside, pushing the lube into his tight hole. Playing, touching, pushing, fucking. Gently tugs and strokes Mycroft’s balls and listens to Mycroft’s moans and sighs. 

As he pushes his fingers inside, Mycroft bears down.

_He’s done this before. But how long ago?_

_It doesn’t matter, Greg. You’re here now and you’re going to make it good._

He palms his own hot and straining cock, slicking it with lube. “Are you ready?” he husks.

“Please."

He slides the head of his cock over Mycroft’s arse, and fits it between his cheeks. Mycroft shudders as he pushes in, fits just the head between his cheeks. Again, gently, moving forward, pushing his hips forward and sliding his cock into the tight ring of muscle. Mycroft pushes back against him, just a little, and together, they work his cock inside until it pops past the muscle. The velvet feel of Mycroft’s channel is a hot heaven, hugging Greg’s cock as he slowly, incrementally, works himself further inside. He stills when he hears Mycroft whimper.

“Keep going,” Mycroft pleads. 

In the dark he can picture Mycroft’s ruined back. He leans down and kisses the skin he can reach, everywhere he can reach, rocking his hips slowly, pulling back and forth, easing himself inside. When his dick is completely sheathed, he relaxes against Mycroft’s body, keeping his weight off but his skin pressed to Mycroft’s. 

He kisses his shoulder blades, listens to his breathing. “Are you okay? Are your ribs hurting?”

“Just, go slow,” Mycroft breathes.

“I will. I’ll be gentle.”

Aflame with the knowledge that he’s inside Mycroft, where no one has been in who knows how long, he tempers it with his need to be gentle, to be kind, to fill Mycroft up not just with his cock, but also with a sense of caring. Mycroft, who’s writhing below him and rubbing back against him. Mycroft, who’s leaned into his touches, who’s trusting him as a starving man trusts a kind soul to feed him. Greg will give Mycroft a good, long fuck accompanied with affection. 

And if he dares to say it, accompanied with love.

“Let me know if it’s too much. Tell me if it hurts. I don’t want to hurt you.” _I want to love you._

It cracks something inside him, a rushing sound in his ears and his chest loosens like rocks falling from a cliffside. He buries his face in Mycroft’s back and keeps his steady rocking of his hips, sinking his cock deep as floodwaters of emotion roar inside him. 

Maybe it was the chips in the armour Greg saw over time - years ago outside a hospital waiting room awaiting word of Sherlock’s status. Maybe it was all the long, late talks over dinner about their lives. Maybe it was the time they shared a celebratory scotch in the Diogenes after Culverton Smith was put away, the night they played a game of flirtation that ended with a fucking. Mycroft may be a posh arsehole with a superiority complex, but he’s human.

Vulnerable.

He slides back and forth, setting a light rhythm of thrusting, until Mycroft is clawing and gasping beneath him, and starts asking for _more, harder, faster_. 

Sweat rolls down his back as he picks up the pace. “I want to see your face.”

Mycroft hesitates, but Greg pulls back and rolls him over. He takes hold of his cock and slides back in, sliding home. He reaches up and touches Mycroft’s face, tracing the line of cheek to jaw. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

Greg hooks Mycroft’s knee over his shoulder as Mycroft tosses his head against the pillows and lets out a beautiful moan. 

“Is that it, there, love?” Greg says, not caring that the endearment has dropped from his lips. “Do you like it right there?”

“Ah,” Mycroft gasps. “G-god-”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear. I want to make this good for you. You feel me? You feel how hard I am for you? You did this to me. You made me want you, scars and all. I know you’re an important man - I know. But I see you. I see the real you, and that makes me want you. The real you.”

Mycroft is near howling and his cock is plump, stiff, pointed at his belly, precome hanging from tip to stomach. His eyes pop open and he meets Greg’s gaze. Greg doesn’t look away.

“I’ve wanted you for such a long time, Mycroft,” Greg says.

Mycroft closes his eyes again and thumps his head back. “Make this last,” he whines. “I don’t want it to stop; I want it to last.”

Greg slows down. “I’ll make it last for you, sweetheart.” He slides the knee off of his shoulder and leans over to kiss him on the chest, right over his heart. “And we can even do it again, if you like.”

Mycroft shivers as a soft cry escapes him. 

Greg releases his leg and Mycroft wraps it around him. He raises one hand up to Mycroft’s face, and slides his fingers into his mouth. “Suck them.”

Mycroft closes his mouth around them, swirls his tongue around them. Greg has to stop moving his hips or he’ll blow his load too soon. “God, Mycroft, you were made for this. You were made for getting fucked and for sucking. God, you’re so beautiful like this. You shouldn’t have kept me from it for so long. I’d do this to you every day if you’d let me.”

Mycroft groans around his fingers. 

Greg removes them and pinches Mycroft’s nipples, reveling in the whimpers, whines, and wriggles. He sets his pace again, thrusting his hips. His balls slap against Mycroft’s arse.

Mycroft gives choked, little cries and then he grabs his cock. Greg stops his hands from pulling. 

“You said to make it last.”

Mycroft whines but releases his dick and throws himself back, gasping as Greg pistons his hips with building force. His eyes can just make out Mycroft’s face, his eyelids screwed shut, his mouth open, a small wrinkle in his forehead. It’s a look of bliss, a look that Greg knows well from topping other men in his past, but on Mycroft it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He’d give anything to see it again after this night.

His rhythm almost stutters with that thought - the thought of what’s to come.

_No. Stay here. Stay with him._

A hint of orgasm smoulders in his groin. He stops, stills, keeping his cock deep inside him. “God, Mycroft, oh god,” he murmurs into that wrecked skin, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s chest. “I’m so close.”

“I - I want to feel you come in me,” Mycroft says in a hoarse voice.

“Soon,” he says and lightly thrusts. “Soon.”

They go on - Mycroft pleading as Greg starts and stops, gently teasing, kissing, gasping humid breath between each other, but soon Greg can no longer stave off the rush of release. 

“Touch yourself,” he says as he leans back to provide space. “I want to see you come.”

Mycroft grabs his cock and tugs, and Greg speeds up, grabbing Mycroft by his thighs and fucking him hard, nailing the man’s prostate. Mycroft whines, and then shouts as his dick pulses a stream of come over his belly and his chest. The sight is overwhelming, and as the pressure in the cradle of his hips rises up in a swirling frenzy, he comes, his orgasm flaring like embers caught aflame. The flash, the leaping and dancing of flames, and then the slow smoulder of heat as his orgasm recedes and his body cools. 

His ears ring with their shouts, and his entire body vibrates and tingles. He pulls back carefully with the condom, slides it off, ties it shut, and pitches it toward the bin. 

Sliding his body up next to Mycroft’s, he buries his head his nose into the man’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Mycroft pants, moans. “Good Lord, I think my ribs hurt but I can’t tell.”

Greg smiles, though a touch of shame prickles at the back of his neck. Exhausted, he rises anyway, goes to Mycroft’s room to retrieve the prescriptions. He brings with him a glass of water from the bathroom. It doesn’t take long to coax Mycroft into swallowing them and as he lies back against the pillows Greg wipes him clean with a flannel. Gentle, slow, soft. Affection and worship.

Like being doused with a cold drink, his fears come rushing back. What if this was it? His one night, his one chance to prove to Mycroft that he’s worthy?

_God, when did I get to be so pathetic?_

He lies down next to Mycroft, wondering if he should say anything, when he hears a soft snore. Despite his heavy thoughts, it makes him smile. He spends a long time lying there, watching him, this person who has become so precious to him, finally sleeping through the early morning hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and the comments. They are like stars, and I am bewitched by the night sky.


	4. Reaffirm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the kudos and the comments. <3

He wakes before Mycroft does. In the cool morning light, he examines some of the scars twisting around the man’s shoulders. It was torture. There’s no other explanation for it. He’d been someone’s captive. 

Now Mycroft sits behind a desk, strides through shadowed government hallways, wears layer upon layer of clothing including sleeve garters and tie pins - _and who wears a tie pin when wearing a waistcoat?_

Mycroft Holmes.

Greg lies there for almost an hour, letting his thoughts wander. Thinking about Mycroft’s care for his brother. His care for his country. Even his politeness and subtle camaraderie with Anthea.

And it’s not that he’s untouchable. It’s that he prefers to be seen that way. 

But Greg has seen beneath the armour now. 

Mycroft stirs, his eyelashes flickering and his head moving from one side to another. His lips twitch, and his tongue appears as he licks his mouth. He opens his eyes.

Greg’s heart in his throat. “Good morning,” he whispers.

Mycroft startles, his eyes wide, and he grabs the bedsheet and pulls it over his shoulders. 

“I’ve already seen them, and I’m not running away.” He lies back, putting his arms behind his head. He doesn’t miss how Mycroft’s eyes trace over the expanse of his chest, then dodge away.

“Where’s my dressing gown?” he asks.

“I think it’s still on the floor.”

Mycroft doesn’t move. “Will you allow me some privacy?” His words are clipped and cold.

Greg sits up. “I can understand if you don’t want me to see your scars in the daylight. It makes everything sharper, somehow, doesn’t it?” He sounds so confident to his own ears. Mycroft doesn’t realize that it’s Greg who has more to lose here. Maybe. Maybe Mycroft has just as much to lose. More, perhaps.

Mycroft turns his face away. Greg rises from the bed and walks to the window to pull the heavy drapery shut, leaving the room in a dim, grey light. 

He picks up the dressing gown and places it on the edge of the bed by Mycroft’s side. “It’s really okay, though. I’m happy about last night. If you want to...I’d be happy to do it again.”

Mycroft’s eyes meet his as he faces him again. Greg thinks he can see hope there, but the man is vigilant, watchful. 

“I’d like to be the one you don’t have to pretend in front of,” Greg says quietly.

“Pretend?” Mycroft’s voice is cutting.

“Maybe you haven’t got it through your thick skull yet, but I’m gone on you. And I know you show the world this cold shield, but what I’m offering is...let me be the person you don’t have to hold the shield up to.”

The look on Mycroft’s face softens. “I don’t understand. Isn’t it the power that attracts you?”

“The power gets me going, yeah. But...the bits of you I’ve seen...the personal bits. They’re what keeps me here with you, hoping you’ll let me in. Hoping you’ll give me the privilege.”

“Even after what you’ve seen? What they’ve done to me?”

“That’s just armour below your armour.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him.

“I mean...it’s an excuse, innit? You can keep people at a distance by thinking no one would want you because of how you look.”

Mycroft’s face changes to one of tremendous fury, but in almost the same instant, it fades, and he looks lost. “I have always been fond of you,” he says, his voice distant and his eyes glazed. “But you couldn’t possibly feel the same for me. Not after the way I’ve treated you.”

“I get worse from Sherlock,” Greg laughs. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t see his value. And I don’t mean just for solving cases.”

Mycroft huffs. Then he buries his face in the sheet, pushing it up over his head. Greg slides closer to him, and gathers him, sheet and all, into his arms. Mycroft can probably feel the rapid rhythm of his heart, but he’s putting his chips all in.

“Tell me about Cupbearer,” Greg says.

Mycroft is still.

“I’m sure you intended for me to never find out the name. But, when I was young, I had a thing for Greek stories.” He strokes the sheet over one shoulder. “Zeus, whose emblem was the eagle, loved the youth Ganymede.”

Mycroft’s voice carries through the sheet. “Ganymede was beautiful, and Zeus brought him up to Olympus and made him the cupbearer to the gods.”

“And his lover.” Greg strokes his shoulder again, presses his mouth to the side of Mycroft’s head, tasting cotton as he asks, “Does Anthea know the story?”

“Who do you think named this safehouse?”

“Wait, am I supposed to be Zeus, and Sherlock is Ganymede? Because if that’s so, we have some serious talking to do.”

A small laugh ripples down Mycroft’s body. “For Sherlock, there is a different name. Quite possibly referring to Dante’s _Inferno_.”

“Jesus, well, I definitely prefer this scenario.” Greg thinks for a minute. “So, Anthea knows, then.”

The sheet nods.

“Okay.” He tightens his embrace around Mycroft’s shrouded figure.

“I still don’t want you to look at me. Yet,” Mycroft says.

“It’s okay. Just know that you don’t ever have to hide any of it from me,” he whispers to the sheet. 

“In the mornings, I use a lotion...the skin can get tight. It helps.” 

“Let me do it for you.”

“We tried skin grafts, but I could never...the first one failed - “ His voice is thick, choked.

“Only tell me if you want to.”

Mycroft is quiet. Greg licks his lips. 

“You haven’t asked.”

“Asked?”

“How I got them.”

Greg exhales. “I don’t believe in making a person relive their traumatic moments. But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.” He’s seen it all too often with victim statements and court testimonies. The deadpan retelling of an awful moment with the victim's eyes clouded and distant. Or the tears, the squeaks of indignity, the cracking open of a chest cavity as a heart is sliced to ribbons, the awful sobbing of a person reliving the worse moment of their life. It's not something he likes. 

“It can’t be this easy,” Mycroft says.

“Why make it hard?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer for a while. “Aside from my disfigurement...I essentially, to use the current vernacular, ‘ghosted’ you.”

“A lot of shit went down at the time.” Greg frowns to remember the call he got that night about the chaos occurring at Sherrinford. Each Holmes brother more concerned for the other. “But, you and me, we always had a good thing going, except when you tried to play high and mighty bossman with me.”

He can almost see Mycroft’s smile through the sheet. “You always were a flirt.”

“I liked you pretty early on.”

“You were married.”

“She had someone. I wanted someone, too.”

“But you have so many to choose from.”

“No one understands me like you do. No one looks at me the way you do.”

“How do I look at you?”

“You see everything. Everything. Even more than Sherlock does. And you accept it about me. You don’t ask for more.” Greg bit down on the corner of his lip. “But I have to ask. Was it just this? This thing about yourself that you were hiding - is this the only reason you didn’t want to have more with me?”

Mycroft is quiet at first. Then, “It’s been years since I have cared for someone in the way I care for you. It seemed impossible that you should want me for more than...sexual satisfaction. I thought it best if I created distance between us. Of course, Sherrinford happened, and then I was...not myself. I kept you away from me. Not just because of this, but also to keep you safe from her.” Greg hears him swallow. “Can you forgive me for treating you so abominably?”

“What do you think?” Greg huffs. He nuzzles the sheet where he thinks Mycroft’s cheek might be.

“I don’t understand you. Why are you so kind to me?”

Greg takes a moment to think of his response. “Remember what I said about your shield? I’ve made you put it down. I’ve seen you laugh, and I’ve made you laugh. You’ve made me laugh. And when I went through hard times, you were there for me. I want to be there for you.

“Lean on me when you need it. Let me help you carry your burdens. Allow me the privilege of being the man by your side.”

“Hand you my armour?”

“And let me love what’s beneath it.”

There’s a shudder of breath beneath the sheet. It lifts, and Greg slides underneath into waiting arms. 

* * *

Greg can’t stop his hands from straightening Mycroft’s tie and adjusting his collar. He wants to nuzzle that bit of neck below his Adam’s apple. Mycroft smiles at him, clearly bemused, but still a litte befuddled.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” Greg says. He smooths his hands down the front of Mycroft’s waistcoat. “Now, where’s that tie pin? Why do you wear a tie pin? Thought that wasn’t necessary with a waistcoat.”

Mycroft dips his chin. “The tie pins I wear are my...panic buttons.”

“Oh,” Greg says. Mycroft takes a small box out of his duffel bag. 

“If I’m accosted, I can press on the pin to alert security. Unfortunately, the night I was taken - “ his voice falters, “ - I had already removed my tie.”

Greg sucks his lips between his teeth and his hands curl into fists. “I hope they’re all dead.”

“Anthea should be coming by soon with a report,” Mycroft says as he places the pin on his tie. Greg watches the practiced movement. Wonders if Mycroft wears one of these now because of what happened to him when he was young. If it had helped him any when he was in Sherrinford. 

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. As Mycroft follows him out to the lounge, he slips on his jacket. Looks himself again.

It’s Anthea, and she carries Mycroft’s umbrella. When she hands it to him, she says: “It’s over, sir.”

Mycroft nods, relaxes his shoulders, tilts his chin up. “Very good. We can return to business as usual.” 

Something cold clenches in Greg’s stomach as he watches Mycroft’s aloof persona return. His eyes focus, sharpen. His grip on the brolly sure. He's prepared to leave, go back to work, go back to his life. 

A life that doesn't include Greg. 

_I thought I'd have more time._

_I thought he'd be here longer._

“Don’t - ” _Don’t go._ But he’s unable to say it. His face heats up like it’s been branded. Anthea’s eyes flick over him. Mycroft looks at him in surprise. Greg squeezes his fists. He licks his lips and avoids their eyes. Stares at the wall. It’s a helpless plea. Now that it’s over, now that Mycroft could go home, Greg could lose him.

And how fucked up is that? He should be glad the mole’s been found out and dealt with. He should be glad that Mycroft can return to the safety of his own flat.

But the grasping sensation in his heart pumps him full of fear, makes his chest too tight to breathe. He’s shown everything, every last card he had. His throat is thick with words he can’t say; not in front of Anthea.

A warm hand encloses his. The soft click of his front doors follows Anthea’s exit from his flat. Mycroft tips Greg’s chin up with his fingers. His eyes search Greg’s.

“Should I come back here tonight?” Mycroft asks.

Greg could weep.

Mycroft cradles his face with his hand. “I’m told we all carry scars, some that can’t be seen,” he says in a gentle voice. “I’m sorry for what I did to you; turning you away like I did. Treating you as I did. I won’t do it again.”

Greg gulps and the air burns sweetly in his lungs. Mycroft pulls Greg’s hand to his cheek and leans his face into Greg’s palm. “I should have treasured you. Allow me the privilege of making it up to you. Say what you need to say, and I will listen.”

Greg gives a little laugh, now wondering if it is all as easy as this. As if the tables have turned.

 _Maybe it is this easy._ Greg is a man of his word; so is Mycroft Holmes. He needs to remember to trust, just as he's asked this man to trust in him.

He swallows and says, “Hand you my armour?”

Mycroft kisses the tips of his fingers as if in reverence. He answers: “And let me love what’s beneath it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my betas, notjustmom and hippocrates460. 
> 
> If Mystrade is your jam and you haven't read my Craquelure series about a post-Sherrinford Mycroft rebuilding his life, you might enjoy it! 
> 
> If you'd like more Greg taking care of a vulnerable Mycroft, you might like this short oneshot, With Appetite. 
> 
> If you need some Mystrade fluff, go with this little ficlet: Pillow Fights.
> 
> My next posted Mystrade will likely be _Written in Skin_ , a Mystrade Soulmates AU set to post on February 11th for #MystradeSoulmatesWeek. 
> 
> I'm also excited to let everyone know that I will be posting _Taking Flight_ in the spring of this year! It's 170,000 words of two men falling in love slowly over a summer season. Greg is a handsome, rugged falconer living in the US, and Mycroft is the enigmatic stranger visiting on sabbatical. What follows is not just a story of love and loss, but also of one man's journey in learning to love himself. 
> 
> Also, check out the rest of the stories in the collection! We are so lucky in this ship to have so many talented authors. 
> 
> Thank you also to you, readers. Your comments and kudos have warmed my heart. <3


End file.
